The Island of contrasts

by Ireneann Njeri Mungai (Kenya)

Making a local connection Tanzania

The island of contrasts Dar-es Salaam city welcomed me with it’s hot humid air, clear night sky and a full moon, which was a reprieve from the cold back home. The restlessness had refused to go away, routine was driving me crazy. Nairobi was a like a budding adolescent last December, one minute it was charming and blossoming, the next it was angry, flooded and held us hostage in traffic snarl ups for hours, I craved something different. Days later, here I was waiting to board the ferry to Zanzibar. The culture dictates that women with children board first, followed by old men and then others, which is the category I fell into. I found myself on the top deck, where the seats were limited, people stood along the railing while some sat on the floor and enjoyed the ride. I woke up to the whirring of the fan blades, the Imam calling out the Morning Prayer, and outside my window, the ocean brought with it a magnificence that is unrivaled. Scooters, tuk-tuks and taxis, were available. My travel partner and I decided to use a dala-dala (converted mini-truck) to explore stone town. It was open to the sides, the seats faced each other, knees almost touching and we had to bend when boarding to avoid hitting the roof. Amazingly, everyone who boarded in various stations gave a warm hello, to us fellow strangers together in transit. We first went to the market vibrant with color, a canopy of cloth joined together to keep away the sun. The air was alive with the fragrance of the perfumes on display, mixed up with the rich dark smell of cinnamon, hibiscus, and various other spices. Mabuyu (candy made from baobab tree fruits) were freshly made and had a prickly sour sweet taste. Being predominantly Muslim, we stood out because of our attire and dialect. Notwithstanding, we haggled with traders for fabric and bought several pieces at a good rate. Day three; we planned to take a fisherman’s boat to the sand bank to swim and bask in the sun, however, we met Omar. Tall,with a protruding jaw line, bow legged, rocking blonde unruly dreadlocks and large sunglasses hiding his eyes. His face remained stoic while talking and his skin bore the brunt of spending too much time in the sun. He was to be our guide, who promptly declared that we were visiting Prison Island, before heading to the sand bank. The Island has now been converted into a tourist attraction site and a sanctuary for giant tortoises. We waded through the tide and climbed up the steps that led to the entrance. The giant tortoises were bold and unafraid, wouldn’t hide inside their shells, that attitude must come with age. We proceeded to the cells which had been left intact, the air was damp and dark, and the walls still reeked of tears and misery. Slaves were held there awaiting the ships that took them to the land yonder. Omar passionately narrated the history of the place, his eyes became alive and could barely hide his joy as he told of the slave who escaped and swam for miles to freedom. Myth, truth, or his great story telling skills, we were awed. When I stepped on the said escape route, and gazed down the jagged cliff with waters raging below, I couldn’t help but marvel on the resilience of the human spirit. We got lost every day in the maze that is stone town, took long walks along the beach and ate the spiciest food at the forodhani night market. However, I will never forget how Omar transformed in those cells, I had found a new appreciation of my freedom. Life may be boring and frustrating, but I can always choose to walk away to the next agenda, destination or moment, a free woman.